“Dearest Mother, what becomes of the girl
no longer a girl?
The stretch marks from my once breasts
have migrated
to their new tectonic
flats. But you can always find
hints of what used to be.
Trust me, it is more beautiful
this way, to look closely
at my body and name it things like:
Pangea & history & so, so warm.
Look at me now
and you’ll see how blood
faithfully takes
the shape of its body,
never asking
too many questions.”
These are words by trans writer Kayleb Rae Candrilli from their poem “One Geography of Belonging.”
As a Jewish community organizer and activist, I often speak to my community members about how we show up differently in public and private spaces. In private, we share stories about our individual journeys to solidarity work. We give each other advice on navigating difficult family conversations. We tease out the complexities of diasporic Jewish identity with patience and care.
But in public, we show up as a united front. We shout, sing, and march in solidarity with movements for justice and freedom. We are accountable to one another—to not burden those most affected by state violence with our internal unlearning. We enter spaces with banners and t-shirts that match, so that the world will know we represent a new and unified wave of activism.
Sometimes, it is hard that the wider world cannot witness the intra-communal work being done to move the Jewish world into a liberatory future. At the same time, the boundary between public and private activism feels clear and strategic.
However, as a trans and queer person, navigating my own boundaries between private and public identity can feel challenging. Within queer communities, I feel more flexible about my clothing, pronouns, and even my name, because I trust that people will see me the way I am asking to be seen. My queer loved ones do not need the guideposts of binders and they/them pronouns to see the map of my existence. In the privacy of my room, the rules that guide public trans expression disappear completely, and I am the queen of my domain.
But in public, queer and trans people are constantly forced to choose markers of identity that stake our claim in the cis realm of existence. We must use language grounded in history to prove that we have always been here. We are categorized into studies and theories by people who are afraid of identity so fluid it transcends citations. We choose words that don’t always fit who we are so we can maintain relationships with people fixated on finding the perfect language.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned on my intersecting journeys into transness and community organizing, it’s that perfect language does not exist. We can try to find the right messaging or perfect chant to encompass the grief and anger overlaid in our hearts, but we won’t. We can try to find the words to describe our dynamic identities shifting between ages, genders, and aspirations, but we won’t.
All we can do is choose which boundaries between public and private feel right to us, in this moment, knowing that it will change.
Blessed are those who set boundaries and blessed are those whose boundaries change. May all who navigate public and private spaces find comfort in this universal experience.